


Control and Surrender

by Kryptaria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Dom!John, If You Were Mine outtake, If You Were verse, M/M, The original Moriarty was a mathematics genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Jim Moriarty's life in the If You Were... 'verse, with special attention to his strange relationship with John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyrical_sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrical_sky/gifts).



**Friday, 29 January 2010**

“What’s their AUM? I don’t want anything big. Too much oversight,” Jim said loudly, over the sound of the shower.

The response was a little distorted — he’d turned the volume as high as the phone allowed — but understandable: “A hundred fifty US per annum.”

“Too big,” Jim snapped, irritated, scribbling briskly on the damp tile. The condensation made the thick black lines of print drip, but he could see the equation well enough. Writing it out just helped fix it in his mind. “Find me a firm under... seventy, seventy-five max.”

“Seventy-five billion dollars won’t be a big enough pool to manage the investments you have, sir.”

Anger flared as Jim looked at the calculations that entirely contradicted his so-called expert advisor’s words. “Do not fucking tell me I’m wrong!” he shouted, crushing the tip of the Sharpie into the tile.

After a moment, his investment advisor meekly said, “Yes, sir. Can I, ah, look into more conventional firms? Maybe a bank or insurance —”

“No!” Jim took a deep breath of steamy air, closing his eyes. He tipped his head back into the fall of water, twisting from side to side to alleviate the tension in his neck. “Independent only,” he said more quietly. “Can you do this, or do I need to find someone to take your place?”

“No!” The fearful shout came quickly, almost before Jim had stopped speaking. “I’ll find... someone —”

A chime cut him off, rescuing Jim from having to hear him grovel. “Get to it,” he ordered, and reached out to dry his hand on a towel before he hit the screen, switching to the new call. “Hello?”

“You’re in the shower.”

Jim laughed at the accusation in his caller’s voice. “Yes. Something wrong with that?”

“Too many things for me to list. I have information for you. Want to hear it or are you not alone?”

“If it’s good news, you can have my investment advisor’s bonus. Or his head. I’ll let you choose.”

The answering laugh was a rough bark, full of amusement. “It’s good news. I found you a new recruit.”

“Oh?”

“Covers two roles, medical and military. Invalided out of the army, decent security clearance, currently unemployed. Close- and medium-range marksmanship scores are _very_ impressive.”

Jim tipped his head curiously, stepping closer to the shelf holding the mobile. No one _ever_ got that sort of praise, at least not from his second-in-command. “Is that _your_ expert opinion?”

“Yes. I’ve worked with him, though not personally. You want this one, Jim. I’m sending over his records now. But...”

Jim waited, listening to the alert that he’d received a new email, waiting for the caller to continue. Meanwhile, he continued filling in the mathematical formula he’d drawn on the shower wall, trying to determine the financial impact of the Euro’s impending failure and how he could best profit from it.

Finally, he prompted, “But what?”

“ _But_ he’s looking for another job, one he’s well-qualified for.”

“SIS? INTERPOL? International terrorism cell leader?”

“How’s pro-dom sound?”

Jim dropped the Sharpie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  AUM: Assets under management, usually expressed in billions of US dollars. Firms are generally categorized in four brackets: $1b-30b, $30b-125b, $125b-250b, and >$250b.
> 
> Types of investment firms include those run by banks/insurance companies, independent firms, multi-service boutiques, and public investment companies.
> 
> I am not an expert on investments, investment banking, or stock trading. However, I seem to have a new kink of Jim Moriarty doing math on the wall in his shower. Go figure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim makes first contact with John, but who's in charge around here, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A retelling of the conversation between Jim and John at the cafe, taken from If You Were Mine, chapter 16:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/412861/chapters/726046

**Wednesday, 3 March 2010**

There was something appealing about minimizing the random elements that, if left unchecked, could turn an espresso shot from caffeinated bliss to sewage. Part of it was muscle memory, knowing the precise pressure to apply when tamping the grounds or ending the pull when the last drop of flavorful volatile oil was extracted without leaving the pull too weak or too bitter, but it went beyond that.

Any teenage barista could learn the basics through repetition. An _artist_ accounted for ambient temperature and humidity, the nuances of the specific machine, how long the machine had been in operation that day, when it was last cleaned or descaled, the chemical composition of the water itself. And then there were the beans — God, Jim had nearly shot the manager when he’d proposed using beans that hadn’t rested. Did the man know nothing about degassing?

Jim pulled two perfect shots, the dark liquid covered with a savory emulsion that looked like foam but wasn’t. He tipped them into the cup he’d prepared, grimacing a bit as the shots blended with the godawful artificial flavor.

 _People,_ he thought with a little shiver of distaste. Crawling through their meaningless lives like insects, never seeing the potential that surrounded them. How could they be so blind?

This travesty, at least, he could blame on Starbucks with its over-burnt roasts and its artificially flavored syrups. He cracked the steam valve to get rid of any condensation and steamed the soy milk for a twelve-count, managing to raise a little foam without causing bubbles or burning the liquid. He added it to the drink in a careful layer, used a wooden stick to swirl his initial across the top, and slid the drink onto the collection bar.

“Double toffee with soy milk for Anita!” he called cheerfully, giving the woman an engaging, shy smile when she came over for her drink.

He went back to the espresso machine, wondering how much longer he’d be at this job. It was incredibly pedestrian and ordinary, but... God help him, he was actually finding it _fun_. Well, that or he was simply enjoying the opportunity to indulge his caffeine addiction whenever he liked. No more interrupting business meetings to find a decent cup of coffee. He _would_ shoot the next person who offered him a K-cup brew in styrofoam, and to hell with his hands-off policy of letting others do his dirty work.

He was setting up the next two shots when the door opened, drawing his eyes for a moment. And there _he_ was, finally, after nearly five days of not coming into the café on Jim’s shift. The last time had been during the breakfast rush, with Jim trapped behind the counter. Now, though, at the tail end of lunch hour, he’d finally be able to make contact.

He had a soft voice but didn’t hesitate with his order — no _hmming_ or vacillating as he stared blankly up at the chalkboard menu on the wall — which confirmed Jim’s suspicions about his personality. Even better, he ordered a sandwich and coffee, which meant he’d be staying for his meal, giving Jim the opening he needed.

Jim built three more drinks before he got to the slip for customer 219. Last time, it had been mild light coffee. This time, he’d ordered the bolder dark roast, still light, still unsweetened. The sandwich wasn’t ready, so Jim started a new pot brewing — he wasn’t going to chance giving this customer coffee that had been sitting long enough to go sour — and continued working through the order slips, with the goal of finishing them by the time the kitchen staff had the sandwich finished.

Naturally, he timed it perfectly, getting through his backlog of drinks just as the fresh pot’s timer chimed. He was pouring the coffee as Keenan came out of the kitchen, carrying the sandwich and order slip.

“I’ve got it,” Jim offered, relieving him of the plate. A quick glance at the receipt and sandwich showed that the staff hadn’t made any obvious mistakes, so Jim picked up the lunch order and went out into the little sea of tables.

His customer was smiling at his phone. He’d been typing a moment earlier, so he was probably texting. He wasn’t very fast at it, and Jim wondered if he was trying to avoid typos or if he simply lacked practice.

“You should smile more often,” Jim said as he set down the plate and the mug.

That got him a smile, just as he’d hoped. Surprisingly intense dark blue eyes flicked down to Jim’s (incorrect) nametag, then back up to his face. “I do, if I have a reason, James.”

There was no mistaking the flirtatious edge to his tone of voice. Jim didn’t try to hide his blush. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the motion drawing attention to the tight clothes that did nothing to hide his body. After all, what was the point in having a personal trainer if you couldn’t show off?

“I prefer Jim,” he said softly, which was true. “They made the tag off my application.”

“I’m John.”

“I know.” Jim widened his eyes and quickly said, “Oh, God. I’m not stalking you or anything. I took your order last week, during the breakfast rush. Large breakfast blend, milk no sugar —”

Providentially, the phone chimed at just that instant, saving Jim from having to cut himself off, since it didn’t look like John was going to interrupt any time soon. He rather seemed to be enjoying Jim’s babbling, in fact, which was... interesting.

So after a moment’s pause, Jim continued, “I’m sorry. I’ll stop bothering you. Enjoy —”

“Jim.”

There it was, the gentle interruption as John took control of the conversation, smiling more with his eyes than his mouth. Beautiful eyes, really — slightly narrowed from habitual squinting, creased at the corners. They weren’t the light, pale blue that couldn’t decide on a specific hue; no, they were definitely, almost aggressively dark blue. Jim _definitely_ liked them.

“You’re not bothering me,” John continued. “I just moved to the neighborhood, and I don’t know anyone. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

True, he _was_ new to the neighborhood, but Jim couldn’t imagine him having any difficulty chatting someone up at a pub. He was handsome without standing out too much. He had a quiet, subtle visual appeal that started out low-key but grew more enticing the more you looked at him, as if the attraction were buried in the fine details — the depth of his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the broad shoulders and hands that were small but looked incredibly strong.

Jim had no trouble mixing professional and personal, especially not with someone like this. He smiled engagingly, saying quickly, “Oh? Well, that’s great, then. I  mean, welcome to the neighborhood and all. If you need —” He paused, hesitant to be too forward. That would just put John off. A man like this required a subtler sort of bait. “I mean, I’ve lived here for ages now. If you have any questions, just yell, okay?” He glanced back at his station behind the counter but didn’t shift his body in that direction, staying entirely focused on John instead.

“Any good steakhouses in the area?” John asked. It probably wasn’t the first thing that came to mind, but rather the first thing he could acceptably say to a stranger.

“Sorry, I’m vegan,” Jim said, wondering how John would take that news.

“Oh.” He was clearly uncomfortable, visibly searching for something appropriate to say. “Well, ah...”

Jim came to his rescue, launching into another apologetic, self-depreciating tirade that wasn’t particularly difficult. He _liked_ animals more than he liked most people, and had no desire to eat either.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t — I mean, it’s _fine_ that you’re not, really. I just, you know... We’ve gotten it all wrong through history, with other races and women and all. Who’s to say we’re not wrong about animals, too? I mean, dolphins — not that anyone eats dolphins — and God, I’m babbling.” He turned, making a vague gesture back in the direction of the espresso machine, presenting John with his profile as he let his head hang, shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I’ll —”

Right on cue, John caught him by the arm, hitting Jim with a confusing whirl of conflicting responses. Step forward, twist arm to apply pressure to thumb and fingers, freeing grasp. Drive elbow back and up into the face, disorienting attacker. Catch wrist in free hand, twist, breaking the hold through pain.

Fall to his knees, head bowed.

Where the _fuck_ had that come from? Jim wondered, just a little dizzy from the mental image. It had to be a subconscious fixation on the role he’d chosen as the best way to get John’s attention. He was just responding naturally to John’s sense of confident, dominant control. But fucking hell, he hadn’t expected to _like_ it quite so much.

He dealt with _that_ type all the damned time — alphas, dominants, type A personalities, whatever you wanted to call them — and he could cause every one of them to fold before him. He _had,_ at one point or another; establishing chain of command early on made work so much easier. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy it when things went the other way; he was just very, very careful to keep _that_ separate from his working relationships.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” John said sincerely, entirely in contrast to the power radiating from the firmly gentle hold he had on Jim’s arm. His hand stayed there for another heartbeat before he let go, saying, “Let’s start over, shall we?”

 _Rather not,_ Jim thought, summoning up the self-control to give John a smile.

John returned the smile, asking, “Now, then... what restaurants _would_ you recommend?”

Jim knew that he was blushing, but there was no choice but to go with it. No way was he going to get control of the encounter — not without getting himself some distance, which he definitely didn’t want to do.

He bit his lip, letting the sting focus his thoughts on answering the question, and remembered the little hole-in-the-wall where he’d met with the café owner three weeks ago. Normally, he wouldn’t go back, but it should be safe. So he said, “Oh! There’s a great Mediterranean place not too far from here that does a fantastic Greek salad big enough for two,” he proposed.

“Sounds lovely. Maybe you can show me where it is, some night?”

 _Yes,_ Jim thought, hiding the sense of triumph that managed to burn through some of the distracting fog that had settled over his mind. “I’d like that,” he said, and escaped while he still could, returning to the espresso machine, where he’d be out of John’s line-of-sight and hopefully have a chance to analyze the encounter logically.

But all he could think about was those beautiful, dark eyes and the feel of John’s hand closed around his arm, strong and controlling and _safe_.

God, he was fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After rescuing John from the crowd, John proposes a first date with Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the retelling of Jim and John's encounter at the cafe.

**Sunday, 7 March 2010**

The sunny weather had brought out the crowds, and the café was packed. Jim kept bumping shoulders with Vicky as they failed to coordinate movements at the espresso machine, and he was one step from snarling at her when he spotted John in the queue.

Something inside him gave a little twist, warmth blossoming deep inside in a way that just _didn’t happen_ to him. “Take over,” he told Vicky, and quickly poured a splash of milk into the biggest mug he could have, which he then filled with strong, bold coffee. Then he slid a piece of cheesecake onto a plate, picked up the coffee, and went to rescue John from the queue.

He looked exhausted. Jim managed to get up close behind him and actually say, “John?” before he even noticed. Jim would have worried at that — he’d thought John more alert — but the ex-soldier reacted rapidly enough, his eyes sharp and _dangerous_.

The threat vanished in a blink, replaced by surprise and pleasure. “Jim. Hello. Sorry. Half-asleep.”

Jim didn’t have to fake his smile; John was _definitely_ interesting. “Your order’s up. No need to stand in line again,” he said slyly, wondering if John would catch on or if he’d protest.

It only took him a moment before he laughed, surprising Jim by gratefully taking the plate and mug. He had his cane, as usual, but it seemed he didn’t always need it; he picked it up and took the mug in the same hand. Did that mean the limp was faked? It _seemed_ real.

Layers. Layers upon layers.

John took a deep inhale of the steam rising from the mug. “God, I need this. I could kiss you.”

For an instant, Jim’s brain stuttered and hitched as his imagination jumped much further ahead than he’d anticipated, and he was entirely _fine_ with that idea. Then he looked down, telling himself to snap the fuck out of it. _Remember who you are,_ he told himself firmly.

But he still found himself saying, “I’m off in an hour,” and then, cursing his sudden inability to control his own fucking mouth, he retreated. He went to the kitchen, needing to break his line-of-sight to John, and caught Maggie’s sleeve as she passed. “Can I get a roast beef on toasted whole wheat, please?”

Her brows went up. “Suddenly gone carnivore, love?”

 _God._ He felt a twitch of irritation and shook his head, trying to keep his smile shy and ingratiating. “For a... customer.”

“Mmm, okay. But only because of that adorable smile,” she said, and turned for the prep table.

He escaped back to his station, trying to think about the next shipment of green coffee beans. The shop had three huge roasters out back, and much of its profit margin came from buying green beans cheaply from various co-ops and small concerns. Most of it was fair trade, organic, or both, and rarely given more than a cursory inspection.

He was _not_ going to let thoughts of kissing John Watson — of _being kissed_ by John Watson — distract him, but his mind was stuck in some sort of loop. He pulled a few shots and helped Vicky keep building drinks, but his mind kept returning to John — doctor, soldier, _dominant_ — and he finally surrendered.

He filled a carafe and went to the kitchen, bumping the door open with a hip to call in, “Maggie! Sandwich?”

“Patience, love,” she cooed at him, still mucking about with whatever she was doing. How long did it take to make one goddamn sandwich?

He clenched his teeth to keep from snapping at her not to call him that and got the hell out of there, going to do a round of refills and table-clearing. It gave him a chance to check on John, too. He wasn’t texting, as he so often did in the café. He was just sitting there, relaxed and calm, watching the pedestrians crowding the street.

Judging that Maggie had had sufficient time to create a sandwich, Jim went back to the kitchen. Fortunately for her, she’d finished, plated the sandwich, and busied herself elsewhere, saving him the trouble of being nice to her.

He brought the plate to John’s table and switched it for the empty dessert plate. John looked up slowly, taking his time, and reached out to brush his fingers across the back of Jim’s hand. It was subtly done; it could have been accidental, but they both knew it wasn’t, and a little voice inside Jim’s head crowed in triumph. Jim tried to silence it, but knew it was a losing fight.

There was no way to hide from the truth. He wanted John. He wanted John to be _his,_ even if it meant John was the dominant one in the relationship, even if it was just sex and not anything more.

Fuck it. It had been an age since he’d had a lover like this.

“All my favorites today, hm?” John asked. His look and his tone of voice told Jim quite clearly that the question had nothing to do with the sandwich.

“I pay attention, when it matters,” Jim said, carefully not meeting John’s eyes. It didn’t hurt that it gave him the chance to study John’s body. Dark green jumper, faded blue jeans, none of which disguised the fact that he’d stayed in shape after his discharge from the military. There was something so beautifully unassuming about John. _Everyone_ would underestimate him — even Mycroft bloody Holmes. “Besides, you looked like you needed dessert first.”

“It’s gorgeous out today,” John said thoughtfully. “I was thinking of going for a walk after lunch.”

 _Today,_ Jim thought, glad he’d pushed to get his local safehouse in order. Well, it wasn’t really _local,_ but it was closer than any of his other residences. More important, it wasn’t connected to anything suspicious or questionable at all. He’d had his accountant bury the purchase behind a complicated layer of perfectly legitimate property investment accounts.

He waited... but there was no invitation forthcoming. Jim looked back at him, searching his eyes and face for some hint of what he was thinking, but he was just... _watching_. One corner of his mouth was quirked up just slightly. He was leaning back in his chair, shoulders relaxed, radiating a sense of confidence and self-assurance.

Fucking hell, just looking at him, being _near_ him, was cracking Jim’s own composure. He bit his lip unconsciously, a habit he’d worked to control, to turn into a weapon, because it helped people underestimate him when he presented himself as friendly and helpful and non-threatening.

“Come with me,” John said. It wasn’t an invitation — it was a command — and it latched onto something deep inside Jim and _pulled_.

He got his breath back and nodded. “Okay. I’d like that,” he said, and held up the coffee pot as an excuse so he could go the fuck away, retreating from John _again_.

Damn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does Jim take being stood up on a date?
> 
> Badly.
> 
> Very, very badly.

**Sunday, 7 March 2010**

Jim paced through the loft, glaring at the fluffy white clouds drifting high over the London skyscape. Behind him, the remains of a laptop littered the carpet. He hadn’t hit the reinforced plate glass hard enough to crack it, but the laptop hadn’t been so lucky.

The ringing stopped with an electronic _click_. “Who do you need killed, Jim?”

“Who the _fuck_ is John Watson? _Who did you send me after?_ ” he screamed into the phone, pacing back to the kitchen. He gave a vicious kick to one of the barstools, sending it crashing across the floor and into the white sofa.

The answer, as always, was calm and remote. “Exactly the person you need, Jim. The more I thought about him, the more I realized just how _right_ he is for you, because I can’t think of anyone else who would put up with your shit besides me.”

Jim took a breath, trying to calm himself, but he’d barely opened his mouth to answer before the anger tore free again. “Then where the _fuck_ is he?”

The pause was eloquent, full of confusion, even though the speaker made no sound. Then, cautiously, he asked, “Where is he supposed to be?”

“Here! With me!”

“Are you asking me to retrieve him?”

Jim exhaled explosively, considering the offer not just for its practical merits but for the loyalty — the _obedience_ — that had inspired it. Even if that loyalty was based solely upon very substantial transfers of cash, it was loyalty all the same, and Jim knew well the value of loyalty.

“No,” he said, when he was calm. “Just... find out where he is. You _can_ track a former soldier with a limp, can’t you?” he added acidly.

“I’ve hunted more dangerous tigers in my time. I’ll get back to you.”

 

~~~

 

Sunday was a holiday in most professions, but not Jim’s. He signed an agreement with a small investment brokerage firm from Hamburg — one that squeaked in just under seventy-four billion per year, which meant his investment advisor could live another month — and opened careful negotiations with an art collector who was interested in acquiring a rare piece currently in the hands of someone not interested in selling.

Stubbornly, he stayed at his new safehouse, rather than returning to his much more well-equipped townhouse. He had one of his people bring him an order of portobello polenta from the bistro down the street from his townhouse, and gave him a bonus hundred quid when it arrived still hot.

The phone rang while he was eating. “Hello?” he answered between bites.

“Captain Watson’s back at his flat. Spent the day at the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s.”

Jim blinked a couple of times, and put his fork down on the plate. He rested an elbow on the breakfast bar, leaning against the phone. “Excuse me?”

“They found Pogrebnov’s body.”

Jim chucked briefly, wondering exactly what that had to do with John Watson. “It’s not like we made him disappear. But what —”

“John Watson was called in to assist with the autopsy.”

“Your report said he’s a sex worker, not a pathologist,” Jim said, trying to hold back the irritation rising inside him.

“He is. But apparently, he’s got some sort of _thing_ with the younger Holmes.”

_“What?”_

“Warn a person, Jim,” the caller scolded sharply. “This is a very good earpiece I’m using, and I’d like to keep my hearing into my old age.”

“What the _fuck_ is he doing with Sherlock?”

“Apparently, fucking him — though that’s just a guess. All the windows in Watson’s flat have blackout shades. You want me to go back home and pick up my infrared gear?”

Jim raked his hand through his hair, closing his eyes, and growled, “No. Stay on him. Don’t be seen.”

“Jim. I know my job. If they separate, do you want me to take out Holmes?”

Jim gritted his teeth. “No. We need him to get to Mycroft. Just stay on him.”

“I’m good for another five hours. Then I’ll need to call in my team.”

“Do it,” Jim said, authorizing the expense. “I want to know as much as you can find out.”

“Got it, Jim. Try to get some sleep.”

Snarling, Jim hung up, cutting off the amused chuckle, and threw the phone. It slammed into the stainless steel fridge and exploded into shards of plastic.

_“Shit.”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim learns that he's not the only mastermind interested in recruiting John Watson.

**Monday, 8 March 2010**

Jim’s new mobile rang while it was still hooked up to his computer, synchronizing. He let the call go through to the landline and answered it there, not wanting to corrupt the data transfer. “Hello?”

“Sir. I, ah, have a report on the Watson mission, sir.” Jim didn’t recognize the voice, but that didn’t matter. The agent was professional, military, and _scared_.

Jim rocked his desk chair forward, glaring at the speakerphone. “Go ahead.”

“Watson’s gone, sir. We lost him.”

“Gone,” Jim repeated very softly.

There was a short but expressive pause. “Yes, sir. IR showed three visitors at the flat, sir. The signals were a little hard to read, but the flat’s north-facing —”

“Get on with it!”

“Yes, sir! They left in a group, but didn’t exit the front of the building. We got a team around back, but they were already gone, most likely by car. We have no further intel, sir.”

“Find him. Do you understand me? _Find him!_ ”

“Yes, sir!” the agent said, and promptly disconnected the call.

Into the silence, Jim said, “Visitors.” He leaned back in his chair, propping one foot up on the edge of his desk, and stared up at the ceiling. “Visitors. Who the _fuck?_ ” he asked in a harsh, angry whisper.

 

~~~

 

The email notification chimed loudly in the office that was stripped of all furniture but a table in the middle. The walls were sheathed in glossy white fiberboard, now covered with equations. Dry erase ink dusted over Jim’s fingers, leaving streaks behind on his face as he rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, leaning down to check the incoming message.

_Confirmed Watson at personal residence, Irene Adler. Corp. William Murray, medic, just departed. Sherlock Holmes confirmed at Baker Street residence. Mycroft Holmes unknown. Further instructions or can I go back home?_

_Photos attached._

_M_

Jim raked a hand through his short, neat hair and looked at the wall of equations. He’d been calculating the critical investment threshold that would allow his clients to control next year’s oil prices — allowing Jim’s organization to skim a tidy 0.03% off the top — but the math there offered him no answers.

He quickly paged through the photos: a low-end mansion, probably in St. John’s Wood; a man, late twenties or early thirties, carrying a military rucksack as he left the house, with an unseen woman silhouetted in the doorway behind him; Sherlock Holmes, visible at the front window of his flat.

 _Go home,_ he responded with fast, hard keystrokes. Then he closed down everything — email, research programs, all of it — and randomly clicked something in his music file. Sergei Prokofiev’s score from _Alexander Nevsky_ filled the room.

He needed intel. Every instinct was screaming to him that this was somehow important. Every single interaction with John Watson had gone precisely as Jim planned. There was no logical reason for him to leave the café without a backwards glance, take Sherlock Holmes — of all people! — back to his flat for the night, and then spend the next night at his boss’ house with a mate from his army days.

Captain John Watson, classified military record. Skilled marksman — skilled enough that he’d managed to impress one of the top ten snipers in Britain, if not the world. Physician working not at a hospital or clinic but as a pro-dom with Irene Adler, whose network of contacts rivalled Jim Moriarty’s own, at least in the UK.

Jim had ordered the hit on Andrei Pogrebnov, chief enforcer for Raisl Aitmatov, specifically to rattle Aitmatov, breaking his nerve. It had worked. Twelve hours after the death video had hit Youtube (uploaded from an internet café in South Korea), Aitmatov had gone into hiding, dismissing his lieutenants. Three of the four had contacted Jim’s agents, offering their loyalty in exchange for protection. The fourth was found dead an hour later. Jim’s clients — and, thus, Jim — now controlled forty-five percent of the Kyrgyzstan radioactive isotope smuggling operation.

And then, John Watson — the man Jim was trying to recruit — had been called to Pogrebnov’s autopsy by _Sherlock Holmes,_ for fuck’s sake.

There was something he was missing — some connection.

“His army days,” Jim said thoughtfully, and quickly hit the first speed dial on his mobile.

Instead of a greeting, the call was answered with: “Should I tell the taxi to turn around?”

“They weren’t _fucking,_ ” Jim snapped. “Holmes and Watson were planning something. Find out everything there is to know about this... Murray, you said?”

“Corporal William Murray, RAMC field nurse. Had a brief on-again, off-again _relationship_ with Watson over in Afghanistan.”

Jim stopped in his pacing and stared at the equations on the wall without really seeing them. Was he reading this all wrong? “Say that again,” he ordered softly.

“Watson had something of a reputation as a dominant. Not openly — he’s an officer — but after Murray mentioned him, I asked around. That’s how I ended up recommending him to Adler.”

“Find out everything. Use your highest contacts. If either Holmes is recruiting him, I want to know.”

“Priority?”

Jim was tempted to make it happen immediately, but at this hour, digging into government files could cause suspicion. It was easier to hide a request for classified files in the bustle of everyday business than at... whatever time of night it now was.

“By close-of-business tomorrow.”

“It’ll cost.”

“Then you’d better fucking deliver.”

 

~~~

 

**Tuesday, 9 March 2010**

_Operation Talent,_ Jim read, walking barefoot to the kitchen, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. This felt so... _seventies._ Instead of getting a normal fucking electronic file, a paper copy had been delivered by secure courier — a paper copy of _photographed pages_. And now he had a vision of a buttonhole spy camera stuck in his head, like this was the goddamn Cold War or something.

The file was had been opened yesterday, but it was already forty pages or more. Sighing, Jim poured himself a drink and texted for one of his men to pick up dinner at the Thai vegetarian place across the city. He’d need the rest of the night to go through this intel, and his eyes were already hurting from the strain.

It wasn’t until three pages later before he realized that maybe — _maybe_ — he wouldn’t have to have his source killed for sending him printed photos instead of electronic text. Page four was a copy of John Watson’s military service record, with handwritten notes requesting additional information.

Jim recognized the handwriting.

He stopped reading long enough to authorize a wire transfer for a substantial bonus; he rewarded innovative thinking as long as the innovation didn’t fuck with the rest of his plans. He moved from the sofa to his desk, where the lighting was better so he could catch every single one of Mycroft’s notes.

He was just done with his first pass when his food arrived. He ate it while reading the file a second time, this time taking notes.

Then he made a call.

“Thanks for the bonus. Always a pleasure.”

“Consider it doubled if you go do your” — unseen, Jim waved his fork in an eloquent gesture — “ _tracking thing_. I need to know everything that happened at the address listed on page two of the file.”

“Yes, there was no record of that — just the order to have Watson picked up and brought there. Curious. You don’t order an interrogation and then _not_ have a transcript.”

“You read the file.” Jim’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at the pages.

“Watson was one of mine.”

“And he _should_ be one of mine,” Jim snapped, dropping the fork on his plate. “Go. Find out what the fuck happened.”

“On my way.”

 

~~~

 

“You want the detailed report or the summary?”

“Summary first,” Jim answered, wide awake since the moment the phone rang. He rolled onto his other side to look outside. The rain had finally stopped at some point after he’d gone to sleep.

“Holmes was on-site — the older one, definitely. Watson never saw his face, though. Three of Holmes’ soldiers, definitely SIS. Watson was injured, though not badly. Forensics already did a sweep, didn’t bother cleaning up the luminol.”

Jim frowned, closing his eyes again. “Holmes _isn’t_ recruiting him, then?” he asked, baffled.

_“What?”_

“Watch your tone,” Jim warned coldly.

“Sorry.” It wasn’t sincere, but Jim let it drop. There was no sense in antagonizing the one person who _might_ be able to keep up with his logic.

Instead, Jim said, “The texts — almost twenty fucking pages of texts, with the little brother playing dumb about his flirting with Watson. How is that _not_ the most obvious fucking recruitment method —”

“You think he’s stealing your trick.”

 _“Don’t fucking test me!”_ Jim shouted, throwing the blankets aside. He rolled out of bed, pacing as he barked, “You are _not_ untouchable!”

The response was absolutely calm, even though they both knew the implicit threat was real. “Okay. So, Holmes has his little brother playing the hard-to-get submissive to get Watson’s interest. Why bother? Watson’s military. Why not just make an offer openly? He’s already served his government once.”

“For every one operation Holmes runs openly, he’s got ten hidden away. Watson would come under too much scrutiny. He was invalided out, and at his age, he wouldn’t qualify for field service in SIS. Holmes wants him for one of his” — Jim sneered distastefully — “ _black ops_ teams.”

“Very Hollywood observation,” was the response, accompanied by a deep laugh.

“You _want_ me to see how long you can live without your skin.”

“Right, so Holmes sicced his little brother on Watson. The recruiting went poorly — no surprise, given that Sherlock apparently has no social skills at all. Why didn’t Holmes just make Watson disappear? Think he had a contingency in place?”

“Mmm... very possible. Something that would come out if Watson were to vanish or wash up dead on a beach somewhere.” Jim smiled approvingly. “You yourself said he’s a smart one.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jim let out a huff, though without any real irritation. “What else do you have for me?” he asked, leaving the bedroom for his office.

“Looks like Watson was retrieved by two women. Tire prints indicate a sportscar matching the one Irene Adler drives, and Watson did send her an ‘SOS’ text after we lost him on surveillance yesterday morning.”

“Interesting. So she’s in on it?”

“Looks that way. That would explain why he’s staying with her.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing. The Yard had its forensics team out there, apparently — most of the footprints were obscured by those booties they wear.”

“Right. Put someone at Adler’s house. I want to know when Watson leaves.”

“You sticking with your cover at the café?”

Jim smirked as he sat down at his laptop to authorize payment for the intel. “I _like_ the café. Maybe I’ll buy it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's business as usual for Jim Moriarty. Naturally, business takes him out of town the minute everyone seems to go crazy back in London. Why is everyone suddenly so interested in searching John Watson's flat? Was Sherlock really contemplating suicide on the bridge?
> 
> _Takes place during the very last scenes of If You Were Mine and the beginning of If You Were with Me on the Bridge. Spoiler heavy!_

**Thursday, 11 March 2010**

As soon as the plane touched down, everyone went for their mobiles like addicts looking for a fix. No different from the rest of them, Jim grinned, unlocked his phone, and switched off airplane mode. He continued to lounge patiently in his seat while everyone else scurried for their overhead bags. He’d be back in London by nine tonight, unless he needed to get rid of his local contact, in which case he’d just buy whatever he needed. All he had was his laptop bag, but even if he’d had something in the overhead, he would’ve stayed in his seat. He hated jostling for space in a crowd.

Finally, his phone synced with the local network. The mobile buzzed in almost desperate warning of a flood of emails. It was half-six in the morning local time, which meant it was still pre-dawn in London. He scowled at the phone and started scrolling through, thinking that if he had to turn right the fuck back around to deal with an emergency, he’d bomb something. Maybe the whole city.

Inbox (45)  
Filter by: Sender  
> Awaiting further orders — 11/03 0051  
>Fwd: Site 010 update — 11/03 0035  
>Fwd: Site 010 update — 11/03 0011  
>Fwd: Site 019 update — 10/03 2253  
>Fwd: Site 019 update — 10/03 2227  
>Not crowded anymore — 10/03 2145  
>Bridge is getting crow... — 10/03 2135  
>SH update — possib... — 10/03 2120

Wondering what the hell had happened, Jim scrolled down to the earliest unread message and started to catch up.

 

> 10/03/10 1930  
> Fwd: Site 019 update  
Ordered surveillance not to engage. If you want him dead, let me know. And in case you don’t have your chart with you, site 019 is John Watson’s flat.  
|| SH entered site 019, alone. Did not ring in —  
|| followed another resident.  
  
  
> 10/03/10 1938  
> Fwd: Site 019 update  
Unidentified female confirmed as Kate Barrett. Am re-sending photos of all significant personnel. Next time you hire idiots for site surveillance, please warn me.  
|| SH and unidentified female exited site 019 in close  
|| company. Orders?  
  
  
>10/03/10 1940  
>Barrett update  
Adler residence surveillance team confirms Kate Barrett left at 1920. Have reprimanded team for not updating Control immediately. Ref. previous note about hiring idiots.  
  
  
> 10/03/10 2000  
> SH FILE UPDATE – PRIORITY  
Sherlock Holmes confirmed to be in possession of a gun. Preliminary analysis indicates a .45, matte black, possibly Colt or Browning. Photo analysis in progress.  
  
  
>10/03/10 2001  
> Update — Adler’s house.  
At 1958, Sherlock Holmes entered Irene Adler’s residence with Kate Barrett at gunpoint, presumably a hostage. No confirmed sighting of Watson.  
  
  
> 10/03/10 2005  
> Update 2 — Adler  
Sherlock Holmes exited alone, not visibly armed. Door remained open; photos attached. Katherine Barrett closed the door one minute later.  
  
On my orders, the Adler residence team split up to maintain surveillance on both the site and Sherlock Holmes. I am en route to take over the SH surveillance.  
  
  
>10/03/10 2120  
>SH update — possible file update???  
With anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, I would’ve said this was a suicide watch. Suggest you review your files to see if there’s uncovered psych history there. Holmes is currently standing on the south side of Hammersmith Bridge, looking ready to jump.  
  
Taking no action. Have sent Adler site surveillance back. Agent managed to follow Holmes without being noticed, but he’s out of shape. Suggest retiring him. Next time, let me do the interviews.  
  
Note: No sign of the other Holmes, but this one chose the location carefully. There’s no CCTV coverage of where he’s standing.  
  
  
>10/03/10 2135  
>Bridge is getting crowded  
Unknown female arrived by taxi, made contact with Holmes. I am not in a safe position to overhear.  
  
  
>10/03/10 2145  
>Not crowded anymore  
Unknown female and Sherlock Holmes departed via taxi. No taxis available to follow. I have notified your CCTV team to review footage and determine destination.  
  
  
10/03/10 2227  
>Fwd: Site 019 update  
|| DI Greg Lestrade entered the building.  
  
  
>10/03/10 2253  
>Fwd: Site 019 update  
|| DI Greg Lestrade exited the building.  
  
  
>11/03/10 0011  
>Fwd: Site 010 update  
As a reminder, site 010 is Sherlock Holmes’ flat.  
|| DI Greg Lestrade entered the building. Used keys.  
  
  
>11/03/10 0035  
>Fwd: Site 010 update  
|| DI Greg Lestrade existed the building carrying one  
|| small duffel bag and one laptop bag. Emma Hudson  
|| seen closing the door.  
  
  
>11/03/10 0051  
>Awaiting further orders  
Jim,  
  
Let me know if you want me to do anything. Otherwise, please recall that I’m available to consult on hiring surveillance agents who aren’t bloody morons.  
  
Enjoy Moscow.

 

~~~

 

Jim was in Moscow on behalf of a client who was willing to pay very well for the confidential acquisition of an icon, _Demetrius of Salonica,_ currently at the Tretyakov Gallery. He had an agent lined up to execute the theft, but Jim needed to deal personally with one of the local bosses who was occasionally known to allow religious or patriotic scruples to get in the way of business. Jim needed to read him personally, to figure out if they could continue working together or if the man had finally outlived his usefulness.

But now, with whatever the fuck was going on back in London, Jim’s priorities had shifted. He made a quick, terse call and put off his meeting for a half hour. Apparently Mycroft Holmes had scared the roaches out of hiding last night. The effort to puzzle out the string of emails had Jim seriously distracted, and if there was some sort of crisis back home, he needed to be ready to fly back at once, if necessary. No point in leaving the airport only to turn back around.

It was still early morning local time, but airports never slept. Jim made his way to the British Airways lounge, showed his membership ID, and went right to the bar. _“Russkii Standart,”_ he ordered, slipping easily into the common central Russian accent. The shot was poured cold and went down smooth and crisp.

 _John Watson’s contingency plan,_ he finally decided, turning the second shot glass between his fingers, though he didn’t yet drink. Mycroft must have sent Sherlock to toss John’s flat. When he didn’t find anything, he had... somehow got hold of Kate and attempted to use her as a hostage. And then Lestrade had gone to John’s flat on... someone’s orders...

No.

He closed his eyes, wondering what was in the duffel bag Lestrade had taken from Sherlock’s flat. Could _that_ have been John’s contingency plan? If so, why would Sherlock have possession of the contingency — files, photos, a recording, whatever it was? John wouldn’t have given it to Sherlock unless he could be trusted not to turn it over to Mycroft.

Had Jim got it wrong from the start? Was _John_ trying to recruit _Sherlock?_ And if so, for what?

He gestured for the bartender to pour another shot as he returned to reading last night’s string of baffling emails.

Sherlock Holmes was known to work with DI Lestrade, which was how Lestrade had come into Jim’s sights in the first place. So Sherlock had gone to John’s flat for some reason, and had then sent Lestrade there. Or maybe he’d gone there ahead of Lestrade intentionally, to hide something.

Or to plant something possibly incriminating. Maybe this was Mycroft’s convoluted way of neutralizing John’s contingency plan — a perfectly mundane arrest.

He needed more intel.

He opened the last email and started typing a reply.

 

>RE: Awaiting further orders  
If an arrest order for Watson is issued, remove him to a safehouse immediately. DO NOT allow him to be taken into police custody. Use any means necessary to ensure this.  
  
I want to know what’s in that duffel bag. Do not make contact, but all other measures are approved.  
  
Call me the minute you know what’s in it.  
  
|| Jim,  
||  
|| Let me know if you want anything. Otherwise, please [...]

 

Once the email was sent, he threw back the second shot and paid using a black Dubai First Royale card in the name John Rossini. While the bartender rang up the bill, Jim called his contact.

 _“Spasibo za ozhidanie. Teper’ ya gotov vstretit’sya,”_ he said, and took back his card while listening to the instructions on where to meet. _“Da, ya ponimayu,”_ he finally answered before he rang off. He signed the bill with a flourish and then left, pushing aside all thoughts of London — for now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Saturday, 13 Mar 2010**

What should have been a quick onsite meeting had turned into a bloody thirty-six-hour headache in which Jim had removed two nouveau riche bosses with inflated ideas about their status, arranged the icon theft, and accepted two more jobs, one of which was to steal a yacht. A _yacht_. He’d taken the job solely because he’d never stolen a yacht before, though it was quite possibly the _stupidest_ business arrangement he’d ever made. His client was desperate to the point of agreeing to pay Jim ninety percent of the new purchase price. The theft, it seemed, wasn’t about acquiring a yacht so much as proving to the yacht’s owner that he wasn’t untouchable. Either way, a job worth two hundred million US was nothing to sneeze at, even after bribes and paying the men who’d do the actual work.

Still, a day and a half in Moscow meant he was playing catch-up at home. He skimmed his emails and took care of the quick issues before taking his laptop out to the kitchen. Bigger problems definitely required espresso and breakfast.

 _Dr. Molly Hooper, forensic pathologist, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital,_ Jim read, delving into the most interesting email attachment. Rain splattered against the windows, turning the dawn into dusk, making Jim want to crawl back into bed for the rest of the day. He felt like he’d been traveling for a week.

He started warming the espresso machine and rummaged through the fridge for anything that would pass as food. He didn’t feel like calling one of his people to bring him anything, so he settled for takeaway with Tuesday’s date scrawled on the top of the styrofoam container. He had no idea what he’d ordered on Tuesday, but he hadn’t binned the leftovers, so it was good enough. Dumping the contents onto a plate showed it to be tamarind pad Thai from the restaurant across the city.

He slid the plate into the microwave and set it for two minutes before turning back to the laptop with a sense of satisfaction. _This_ report was much more professional, the type of thing he expected from his teams.

Preferring to draw his own conclusions from raw data, he paged past the summary. He skimmed the photos — a small, narrow terraced house set behind a tiny yard; the cropped image of a woman, mousy brown hair and brown eyes, wearing a lab coat; an ID badge photo of the same woman — and started really reading once he got to the personnel file.

The bullshit language of her performance reviews reminded Jim why he’d never work for anyone but himself. It was difficult to get to the real meaning under the buzzwords, but he started to build a picture of a woman who was bad with people, good with science. Her school transcripts seemed to bear this out, with scores that were high in the sciences and low in humanities. She _tried,_ though; in school, she’d been a member of a half dozen clubs and teams.

At exactly ninety seconds, he turned back around and stopped the microwave. He moved the plate to the counter next to his laptop and put a hand on the espresso machine, judging that it would be another couple of minutes before it was ready. He really needed to get some sort of timer for it, but his schedule was too unpredictable. Resigned to another ten minutes without caffeine, he got a fork and returned to the other counter, eating while he continued assembling a mental picture of Molly Hooper, the latest entrant into this bizarre drama.

It wasn’t until the file after her school transcript that he found the possible connection: She consulted for the Met and was on the CPS preferred list of expert witnesses. A name jumped out at him, making him pause. Apparently, she’d been the consulting pathologist on the Pogrebnov autopsy.

Was _Sherlock Holmes_ the connection, then? Jim closed his eyes, idly twisting his fork in the pad Thai noodles, trying to see the strands.

The Yard sends Pogrebnov’s body to Hooper for analysis. No surprise — it would’ve taken a marine biologist to immediately recognize the cause of death. Hooper’s out of her depth, so the Yard calls in Sherlock, and _he_ calls in John Watson. But why was Sherlock staying at Hooper’s house now? Sherlock _did_ do a lot of work at Barts... Was he involved with Hooper? The idea of Sherlock Holmes dating _anyone_ was laughable, but it was the first logical connection that jumped to mind.

The ring of his mobile interrupted his thoughts. “Hello?” he answered, still winding noodles around his fork.

“I’ve been trying to get you for two days.”

“Emergencies. You have an update for me?”

“You could say that. Where do you want to start?”

“Tell me you know what Watson’s contingency plan was.”

“No-go. One of your men made it onto the property yesterday, but Holmes’ landlady was there.”

“His... landlady,” Jim asked, racking his memory. “His _landlady_ was at Hooper’s house.”

“She spotted your agent as soon as he made it into the backyard. Fortunately, he wasn’t a complete imbecile and was dressed as a utility worker.”

Jim closed his eyes, counting to twenty in Russian. “Why was his landlady at Hooper’s house?”

“You haven’t seen the surveillance photos?”

“Obviously not,” Jim snapped, sorting his email to show the messages from his team at Hooper’s house. “Crisis?”

“That’s for you to decide — assuming you still want Watson to avoid arrest. Start with the email from yesterday around half six in the morning.”

Frowning, Jim opened the relevant email and found himself staring at the photo of a man emerging from the same terraced house he’d seen earlier. Though he had an umbrella out and was poorly illuminated, Jim recognized him at once: Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock’s primary contact at NSY.

“Fuck,” Jim said eloquently. First Lestrade had been at Watson’s flat, then at Sherlock’s, and now he was at Hooper’s house.

“Think Holmes is siccing the Met on Watson?”

Jim rubbed at the back of his neck and turned to lean back against the counter. He didn’t answer; instead he asked, “What time did he show up there?”

“Good question. He was never observed entering, so it was some time before we started our surveillance — the night Holmes was on that bridge.”

“So Hooper, Holmes, _and DI Lestrade_ spent the night together.”

“The evidence is pointing that way, yes.”

“And the landlady?”

“Showed up about a half hour after Lestrade left Hooper’s. Then Hooper left. We didn’t have the personnel onsite to follow her or Lestrade, but they came back together around close-of-business, so I’m guessing they just went to work.”

“And Holmes?”

“Left Hooper’s residence to go back to Hammersmith Bridge yesterday at eight. He was back at Hooper’s by ten.”

Ignoring the espresso machine, though it had to be at operating temperature by now, Jim turned and hopped up to sit on the counter. “What was he doing on the bridge?”

“Not a fucking clue. I have surveillance photos of him using his phone — texting or emailing is my guess. He didn’t contact anyone. It might have been a signal to someone nearby, maybe someone driving across, but there’s no way to know.”

The more he learned, the less any of this made sense. He’d process it all later, when he had more intel. “Right. Okay. What’s the update from the team at Adler’s house?”

The answering sigh was profound. “Should I give you ten minutes to catch up with your email?”

“How about you fucking tell me what I want to know? Or do I have to have you brought here so I can get some fucking answers for myself?”

“Try it,” was the instant response, though it was delivered without any particular heat. “Watson left Adler’s house last night, just past half two.”

“You mean _today,_ ” Jim corrected automatically, his mind racing. He had two agents watching John’s flat, assuming they hadn’t been shot for incompetence, and he could have a full security detail there in under ten minutes.

The risks were starting to outweigh the rewards, though. A combat-trained doctor would be useful — who _wouldn’t_ want one? — but not at this price. And as tempting as it was to fuck with the Holmes brothers (not to mention the Met), he wasn’t ready for the final showdown. Not yet.

“Continue as ordered,” he finally said, going to check the temperature of the espresso machine. Caffeine was quickly going from being a luxury to a necessity.

“If they do try to arrest Watson and Lestrade’s on the team, do you want us to take him for questioning?”

Jim smiled, glad at least _one_ person on his team could think properly. “Absolutely. Arrange a distraction so no one realizes he’s missing for a few hours.”

“How much of a distraction?”

“Whatever strikes your fancy. We still have the Semtex from the South Armagh Brigade job. Send someone expendable to take down a building or something.”

“Subtle.”

“If I wanted subtle, I’d do it myself. Call me as soon as you know what’s in that bag Lestrade took from Holmes’ flat — and that means ‘pick up the fucking phone’, not ‘send me an email’.”

“Really? I never would’ve known.”

“You only need one eye to see through a scope,” he warned, disconnecting.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with the invaluable help of Mitaya, of course! This chapter immediately follows the last part of A Meeting of Minds (note the dressing gown).
> 
> This phase of the story ends here, but there's more to come in the not-yet-posted core story, If You Were the Hunter. Thanks for taking this trip with us!

**Sunday, 14 March 2010**

Jim hadn’t reached his place in life by being an idiot. When it came to John Watson, Jim needed to be subtle. Watson had spent years in the army, without being disillusioned by the politics. He was a patriot, loyal to his country, at least to an extent. But that law-abiding side was balanced out by whatever game he was playing with Mycroft Holmes, which meant that Jim might well have a way into Watson’s defenses.

But he needed to handle this all very carefully. To earn his loyalty, Jim would have to first become his friend. That would take time and effort and concentration. One slip, and John would realize something was wrong with Jim’s carefully crafted mask of innocence.

Or he could discard the idea entirely. There were other combat-trained medics out there. And if not, there were plenty of practicing physicians who’d be tempted by the offer of pay higher than they could get under the NHS’ stranglehold, in exchange for discretion.

Go back to the townhouse in Knightsbridge and forget John Watson. Or go to the loft near the café where he’d been working, change clothes, and report to work at the café. He considered both options as the lift rumbled down to the ground floor, but had no definitive answers one way or the other.

Outside, Jim’s security team had the car ready, as expected. “Knightsbridge house,” he instructed as he slid into the back of the car. Jim tossed the blue dressing gown onto the seat, rubbing the fabric between his fingertips. He couldn’t remember who’d originally given it to him or even when; it had never been really significant. Hell, he’d abandoned the thing at the loft he’d given to Moran as a reward for successfully infiltrating his defenses with no qualms.

Damn Moran, anyway. The shade of blue _would_ complement the darker blue of John Watson’s eyes. He made this situation with John Watson sound so easy. _Make proper contact, recruit him, make him disappear. Earn his loyalty_.

His mobile rang before they’d driven more than a kilometer. “Hello?” he answered.

“This is Hall, sir, at site ten.”

Jim sat up; site ten was the flat at Baker Street. “Go ahead.”

“Sherlock Holmes just entered, sir, carrying the bag we were ordered to watch for.”

 _Fuck,_ he thought, sinking back against the leather upholstery. Even if they ripped Baker Street apart, it was even odds whether his men would find the information or recognize it even if they did.

“Right. Take no action,” he said, disconnecting. He dialed Moran, who’d made it to speed dial two.

“Miss me already?” Moran asked dryly.

“Cancel all orders about that damned bag of Sherlock’s. He brought it to Baker Street.”

“Not good. All right. Any alternative orders?”

“No. I’ll deal with it myself.”

“Jim... You’re not going to make contact with him, are you? We still don’t know how closely he’s working with Mycroft.”

True, but Jim wasn’t about to go blundering in there himself just to sneak a look at what was in that bag. The best source, of course, was John Watson himself. Moran wasn’t subtle enough to understand — not that he needed to. If he wanted to stay a contractor, then he was definitely on the other side of the need-to-know line.

“Your concern is touching.” Jim disconnected and dropped his mobile back into his jacket pocket.

Jim leaned back, closing his eyes, wondering just how much of his interest in John was strictly professional. Of all the countless people on the fucking planet, quite a few of whom would be thrilled to work for him, why was he stuck on John Watson?

He got out his mobile again and impatiently scrolled through the roster until he found out which team was on watch at Watson’s flat. The team leader answered the call with a businesslike, “Sir.”

“Report,” Jim said, finding a new appreciation for the level of professionalism Moran was bringing to his organization.

“All quiet, sir. Watson hasn’t left the property since he returned home at zero-three-oh-five Saturday morning.”

“Any sign of Scotland Yard’s finest?”

“No, sir.”

Well, that was something, at least. Jim acknowledged the report and disconnected. If John hadn’t been arrested, it meant he might show up at the café today. John owed him a date, after all.

Maybe Jim just needed a good fuck to get John out of his system. He’d probably be damned good at it, and it had been a long time since Jim had subbed for anyone; the other way around was always safer, but _safe_ was just another word for _boring_.

That was it, he finally decided. He was obsessing about John out of boredom; of course he was. John was attractive and different, nothing like the people Jim usually dealt with. The fact that John had managed to outwit Mycroft Holmes was just an added bonus.

He leaned forward and told his driver, “Take me to the new loft instead.” If he was going to actively make contact with John, he’d need to put himself in the right place, and that meant not skipping work at the café.

He’d follow Moran’s advice, to a point. Whether it ended with recruiting John or seducing him — or both, which was definitely an option — Jim would at least get what he wanted. If nothing else, maybe pillow talk would get John to reveal his secret.


End file.
